Of Cashews…

Cashews are one of my favorite nuts.  Like most people I knew they grew on trees but had no clue about the work that went into harvesting them, until the year my family decided to send them out as Christmas gifts.

Cashews grow as part of the Caju fruit.  The fruit can be used to make the juice, and although I like the nuts, I hate the juice.   

The nuts are covered with a thick, impenetrable shell.  The first step is to set the nuts on fire.  I do mean that literally.  Using a jury rigged metal pan, we placed the nuts over the fire and allowed them to catch on fire to burn off some of the acidic oil contained in the skins. 

We removed the now blackened nuts from the fire and set about breaking through the shells.  Since the shells have the impenetrability of a Kevlar vest lined with crocodile skin, this step was miserable.  Adding to the fun was the fact that the shells were full of an acid that would eat through your skin.

We pulled on gloves to protect our hands but found that the acid wasn’t picky and soon the gloves had holes eaten in them.  Hunched over make shift tables made of bricks, around a fire entirely too warm in the afternoon heat, we used hammers and brute strength to get the nuts out.  More often than not the nuts came out in pieces, and a whole nut was cause for celebration.

We had intended to make the nuts into Christmas present but there is nothing very festive about crumbs of nuts in a pretty bag tied with ribbon.

We improvised by deciding to make the nuts into brittle.  Other than the acid-burned hands, making cashews the old-fashioned way was an experience not to be looked down on.  It gave us a better appreciation of the work that goes into the things we take for granted.

And gratitude is worth the price of acid-burned fingers.